The Corps IV - Battleground

by W. E. B Griffin

  "Yes, Sir."

  "But that is not the reason, at least the main reason, I wanted this little chat with you, Captain Galloway."

  "Sir?"

  "Knowing as I do your penchant for obeying only those orders you find it convenient to obey, I suppose it's hoping too much to expect you to have a white uniform for formal occasions?"

  "Sir, I have a set of whites."

  "Just in passing, I believe the regulation says you are required to have two sets. Is the one set you have suitably starched and pressed for wear at a formal occasion, for example, taking cocktails and dinner with an admiral?"

  Charley took a quick mental inventory of his closet in the BOQ. His whites, never worn, were there, still in the bag they'd come in. If they weren't pressed, he had an iron. "Yes, Sir," he said.

  "Good. The admiral will be pleased. He is sending his car for us at 1830. Try not to spill tomato juice on your whites between now and then. With you owning only one set, that would pose a problem."

  "What admiral is that, Sir?"

  "Take a guess."

  Since Charley was reasonably convinced that for reasons he could not imagine, Dawkins was pulling his chain about dinner with some admiral, he could not resist the temptation: "Admiral Nimitz?"

  "No. Close, but no. Guess again."

  Christ, he's serious!

  "I have no idea," he confessed.

  "I'll give you a hint: How many officers do you have with uncles who are admirals?"

  "Oh, Christ! What's he want?"

  "I don't know. What I do know is that his aide was over here around noon-in his whites by the way, with the golden rope and everything-bearing an invitation for you and me to take cocktails and dinner with the admiral at his quarters. The admiral is sending his car for us, and the uniform is whites."

  "Jesus!" Charley said.

  "Have you been saying unkind things to Lieutenant Schneider, Charley?"

  "No. I was just flying with him, as a matter-of-fact. He's doing very well, and I just told him so. He's going to be all right, Colonel."

  "Well, he is not, repeat not, to be informed of where you and I are going tonight. The way the aide put it was, 'the admiral thinks that it would be best if Lieutenant Schneider didn't hear of this.'"

  "I wonder what the hell is going on?"

  "Considering how you ignore me when I tell you I don't want you flying more than four hours a day, I wonder if you will be able to keep our dinner plans a secret from Lieutenant Schneider."

  That won't be a problem. Schneider at this very moment is probably already showered, shaved, shined, and doused with cologne, and breathing through flared nostrils as he arranges tonight's rendezvous with Mary Agnes O'Malley; he won't surface until tomorrow morning, looking wan, exhausted, and visibly satiated.

  "That won't be a problem, Sir."

  "You told me that keeping your flying under four hours a day wasn't going to be a problem, either, as I recall," Colonel Dawkins said. "My quarters, not a second after six-thirty. We don't want to keep the admiral waiting, do we, Charley?"

  Colonel Dawkins hung up while Charley was on the "No" of "No, Sir."

  At 1825 Admiral Daniel J. Wagam's aide-de-camp arrived at Lieutenant Colonel Dawkins's BOQ in the Admiral's Navy gray Plymouth staff car. Captain Charles M. Galloway arrived a moment later in his nine-year-old yellow Ford roadster. By the time Charley found a place to park the Ford, Colonel Dawkins had emerged from the building and was standing by the Plymouth.

  The admiral's aide, a Lieutenant (j.g.), got in the front seat beside the driver, affording Captain Galloway, in deference to his rank, the privilege of riding in the back. Charley had often wondered why in military protocol the back seat represented privilege and prestige. If he were the brass hat, he would have chosen to ride in front, where there was often more room and you could see better.

  After considerable idle thought, he'd finally figured out an answer that made sense: It went way back, to horse-drawn carriages. The front seat then had been less comfortable, and often out in the rain.

  The services were very reluctant to change tradition. Charley knew that chances of his ever having to take a swipe at somebody with a sword were pretty goddamned remote. But a sword, in the pattern prescribed for Marine officers, was like his white uniform, yet one more thing he had had to buy when he took the commission.

  The crown of his white brimmed hat cover had embroidered loops sewn to it. These were not the gold embroidered loops ("scrambled eggs") worn by senior officers on their caps. So anyone could tell at a glance whether or not he was looking at some lowly company grade officer. The loops went back to the days when Marines were posted as sharpshooters in the rigging of sailing ships. The officers then had fixed knotted rope to their headgear so the sharpshooters would not shoot them by mistake. Charley somewhat irreverently wondered if that now sacred tradition had come into existence after too many officer pricks had been popped "by mistake" by their men in the rigging.

  "You should not have shot Lieutenant Smith in the head, Private Jones. You could see that he was an officer. He had rope on his hat."

  How come, Charley wondered, only the officers wore rope loops? Why not all Marines? Or in those days, was it considered OK to shoot enlisted Marines by mistake?

  Admiral Wagam's aide turned around on the front seat.

  "Colonel, by any chance do you know Commander C.J. Greyson?"

  "Yes, I do," Colonel Dawkins replied. "He was a classmate."

  "Yes, Sir. I knew that. I didn't know if you knew Charley."

  "Knew him well. We were both cheerleaders."

  You were what? Cheerleaders? Jesus Siss Boom Bah! Go Navy!

  "Charley's my brother, Sir."

  "Oh, really?"

  "He's on the staff of COMDESFORATL now, Sir. I had a letter last week." (Commander, Destroyer Force, Atlantic.)

  "Well, when you write him, please give him my best regards," Dawkins said.

  Back in Central High School, those of us who played varsity ball thought the male cheerleaders were mostly pansies. But I guess things are different at the United States Naval Academy, huh?

  "Yes, Sir, I'll be happy to."

  "You went to the Academy?"

  "Yes, Sir. '40."

  Lieutenant (j.g.) Greyson smiled at Charley.

  "I understand you were directly commissioned, Sir."

  "Well, the Commandant had to make a choice," Charley said. "It was either commission me, or send me to Portsmouth."

  Lieutenant (j.g.) Greyson looked uncomfortable and turned to the front again.

  "Watch it, Charley," Dawkins said, softly and sternly; but he was unable to suppress a smile.

  In 1937-39, when he was still a Captain, Rear Admiral (upper half) Daniel J. Wagam and his family occupied the quarters he shared now with Rear Admiral (lower half) Matthew H. Oliver.

  (Rear Admirals, upper half, are equivalent to Army and Marine Corps Major Generals. Rear Admirals, lower half, are equivalent to Army and Marine Corps Brigadier Generals. Army and Marine Corps Major Generals wear two silver stars as the insignia of their rank, while Army and Marine Corps Brigadier Generals wear just one star. All Rear Admirals, however, wear the same two stars that Major Generals wear. This practice is said to annoy many Army and Marine Corps Brigadier Generals, particularly when they learn that they actually outrank the Rear Admiral, lower half, whom they have just saluted crisply.)

  Though the Pearl Harbor officer corps had tripled or quadrupled in size since 1939, there were now very few dependents. That meant that many former family quarters were now occupied by "unaccompanied" officers. It had worked out remarkably well.

  Placing "unaccompanied officers" in family quarters afforded senior officers with quarters appropriate to their rank. This was valuable not only because these provided greater creature comforts-such as privacy and luxury- than can be found in Bachelor Officer quarters, but because these also gave them a place where they could hold private meetings over drinks, or drinks and di
nner.

  Admiral Wagam's quarters were a four-bedroom house. He occupied the master bedroom, Admiral Oliver the guest room, and their aides-de-camp occupied what he still thought of as Danny's and Joan's rooms. The admiral's children were now waiting out the war with their mother, near Norfolk, Virginia.

  Three Filipino messboys took care of the housekeeping and cooking. (Two of them were assigned as a prerogative of rank to Admiral Wagam and one to Admiral Oliver.) The loyalty and discretion of Filipino messboys was legendary. Admiral Oliver was not senior enough to have a permanently assigned staff car and driver. Admiral Wagam's driver lived over the garage.

  Admirals Wagam and Oliver got along splendidly. When one or the other of them wished to hold a meeting in the house, he simply asked the other if it would be possible for him to eat in the Flag Mess that night. Neither, both being gentlemen, ever asked who was being entertained. It might be CINCPAC himself, for example; or it could be an old family friend-female-with whom the admiral had a platonic relationship but did not wish to wine and dine at the mess because of the way people talked. No matter who it was, each admiral could count on the discretion of the other.

  A white-jacketed, smiling Filipino messboy had the front door of Admiral Wagam's quarters open even before Lieutenant Greyson could put his finger on the highly polished brass door bell.

  Greyson waved Dawkins and Galloway through the door.

  "I'll tell the Admiral you're here, gentlemen," he said, and went to the closed door to the study and knocked.

  In a moment, Admiral Wagam emerged, carrying a leather briefcase.

  "Lock that up, will you please, Dick?" he said, as he handed the briefcase to his aide-de-camp.

  "Aye, aye, Sir."

  "Gentlemen," Admiral Wagam said, smiling at Dawkins and Charley. "Welcome. I'm glad you were able to come tonight."

  "Very good of you to have us, Sir," Dawkins said.

  "Dick's been telling me, Colonel, that you and his brother are classmates."

  "Yes, Sir. '32."

  "I'm '22," the admiral said, and turned to Galloway.

  "And the famous-or is it infamous-Captain Galloway. I've been looking forward to meeting you, Captain. I was present, Captain, for the famous 'Q.E.D.' remark."

  "Sir?" Galloway asked, wholly confused.

  "I was in Admiral Shaughn's office when word came that you were flying that F4F out to the Saratoga. Captain Anderson of BUAIR [Bureau of Aeronautics] was there, sputtering with rage. He said, 'Admiral, this simply can't be. My people have certified all of VMF-211's aircraft as totally destroyed.' And Admiral Shaughn replied, 'Quod erat demonstrandum, Captain, Quod erat demonstrandum.' What made it even more hilarious was that Anderson didn't have any Latin, and it had to be translated for him."

  "Yes, Sir," Charley said, still wholly confused.

  "He didn't know that 'Quod erat demonstrandum'meant 'the facts speak for themselves'?" Dawkins asked. "Really?"

  You made that translation for me, Charley realized. Thank you, Skipper.

  "He hadn't the foggiest idea what it meant," Admiral Wagam said, chuckling. "And he gave an entirely new meaning to the word 'ambivalent.' Like everybody else... Anderson is really a nice fellow, personally... he was hoping that Galloway would make it onto Sara. But on the other hand, if he did, in an airplane Anderson's BUAIR experts had certified was damaged beyond any possibility of repair, he was going to look like a fool:"

  Admiral Wagam laughed out loud. "Which Galloway did, of course, making him look like a fool. No wonder BUAIR was so angry with you, Galloway. Well, it turned out all right in the end, didn't it? All's well that ends well, as they say."

  "Yes, Sir," Charley said.

  "Let's go in the living room and have a drink," Admiral Wagam said. "I've been looking for an excuse since three o'clock."

  A small, pudgy Filipino messboy in a starched white jacket was waiting for them behind a small, well-stocked bar. Through an open door, Charley saw a dining room table set with crystal and silver. A silver bowl filled with gardenias was in the center of the table.

  "We've got just about anything you might want," the Admiral said, "but Carlos makes a splendid martini, and I've always felt that a martini is just the thing to whet the appetite before roast beef."

  "A martini seems a splendid notion, Admiral," Dawkins said.

  "Yes, Sir," Charley said.

  "Four of your best, Carlos, please," the admiral ordered. "And I suggest you have a reinforcement readily available."

  I could learn to like living like this, Charley thought. But this was instantly followed by two somewhat disturbing second thoughts: Jesus, Caroline's house in Jenkintown is bigger than this. And so is Jim Ward's parents' house. And compared to the apartment on the top floor-the penthouse- of the Andrew Foster Hotel, this place-this Admiral's Quarters-is a dump.

  Carlos filled four martini glasses from a silver shaker, and the Admiral passed them around.

  The Admiral raised his glass, and looking right at Charley, said, "To youth, gentlemen. To the foolish things young men do with the best of intentions."

  "Admiral," Colonel Dawkins said, "with respect, I would prefer to drink to the wise elders who keep foolish, well-intentioned young men out of trouble."

  "Colonel, I normally dislike having my toasts altered, especially by a Marine, but by God, I'll drink to that," Admiral Wagam said, taking a sip and beaming at Dawkins.

  Charley and Lieutenant (j.g.) Greyson dutifully sipped at their martinis.

  "So you have the feeling, do you, Colonel..." Admiral Wagam said, interrupting himself to turn to the messboy: "Splendid, Carlos. Splendid."

  "Thank you, Admiral," Carlos beamed.

  "... that senior officers rarely get the appreciation they should," Admiral Wagam went on, "for-how should I put this?-tempering the enthusiasm of the young men for whom they are responsible?"

  "Yes, Sir," Dawkins beamed. "I was just this afternoon having a conversation with Captain Galloway about his excessive enthusiasm for flying."

  "At the expense of his duties as commanding officer, you mean?"

  "No, Sir. I can't fault Captain Galloway's command. What I was trying to do was point out that all work and no play makes good squadron commanders lousy squadron commanders."

  The Admiral grunted. "There was a study, a couple of years back, Medical Corps did it on the quiet. They found out that a newly appointed destroyer captain on his first voyage as skipper averaged five point three hours sleep at night. A man, especially an officer in command, can't function without a decent night's sleep. There's such a thing as too much devotion to duty, Galloway. You listen to Colonel Dawkins."

  "Yes, Sir."

  "That sleep requirement apparently doesn't apply to aides, Admiral?" Lieutenant (j.g.) Greyson asked.

  "Aides have very little to do," the Admiral replied. "They can get their necessary sleep while standing around with their mouths shut." He put his arm around Greyson's shoulders. "I learned that from a distinguished sailor, Mr. Greyson. Your father. I was his aide when he told me that."

  A second messboy appeared in the door to the dining room.

  "Excuse me," he said. "Admiral, dinner is served."

  "Hold it just a moment, Enrique," Admiral Wagam said. "I need another one of Carlos's martinis."

  Charley glanced at Dawkins. Dawkins, just barely perceptibly, shrugged his shoulders, signifying that he had no idea what the hell this was all about, either.

  The admiral passed out four fresh martinis.

  "Let me offer another toast," he said. "Prefacing it with the observation that, obviously, it is not for dissemination outside this room. To the officers and men of VMF-229, who will sail from Pearl Harbor aboard the escort carrier Long Island two August. May God give you a smooth voyage and good hunting."

  "Hear, hear," Colonel Dawkins and Lieutenant (j.g.) Greyson said, almost in unison.

  "Thank you," Charley said.

  "Although I am afraid he sometimes qualifies as one of the foolish,
overly enthusiastic young men we were talking about a moment ago, my nephew tells me that VMF-229 is the best fighter squadron in Marine Aviation. Do you think I should believe him, Captain?"

  "Sometimes even foolish young men have it right, Admiral," Charley said.

  "Is that another example of that famous Marine modesty, Captain?" Admiral Wagam asked, as he put his hand on Charley's arm and led him into the dining room.